


Wreck, Rule and Ruin

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: Cybertron [4]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Cybertron
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>8.1 million years ago, the Cybertronian Civil War was just beginning. As it is with all wars, one single shot would escalate the emerging hostilities... and have consequences that would be felt for centuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Simon Furman and Geoff Senior

\------------  
 _Hub Capital: Iacon  
Imperial Amphitheatre_

 _8.1 Million Years Ago_  
\------------

 

Optimus Prime had never felt so alone.

Twenty high-ranking generals sat before him. Autobots, they were calling themselves now. Not so long ago, there’d been no need for designations, descriptions by which the population of Cybertron could be codified and differentiated. There were the giant Cybertronians and the diminutive Mini-Cons, and that was that.

Optimus had known that better than most. Not so long ago, he’d been an archivist. It had been his job to sift and sort the population and make sure his people’s history and culture was properly catalogued. He’d often wished there was a simpler way to label groups within the Transformer race, if only to make his figures more accurate.

_Be careful what you wish for, indeed._

He stepped up to the podium and began his address. He welcomed the dignitaries and then quoted _The Covenant of Primus_.

“And the leader did say: do not grieve, for soon shall I be one with the Matrix. There shall I remain, deep within its coding, until a soldier rises from our ranks and uses its power to light our darkest hour.”

 _Darkest hour_ , he thought. _Appropriate, given our current situation._ It seemed the Autobots – the hastily-formed, rag-tag peacekeeping force – were all that stood between society and total warfare.

Cybertron’s greatest warrior, the near invincible Megatron, had gone rogue, wiping out his own unit and declaring war on the ruling High Council. It was remembered as the first shot in the civil war. Remembered wrongly… though only two Autobots knew the truth.

Dismissed as crackpots to begin with, Megatron and his inner circle – who called themselves “Decepticons” – had been anything but. Soon after the slaughter of their unit, they decimated the southern polar state of Kaon and razed the city of Nova Cronum. The carnage drew millions of Transformers to their cause – the isolated, the malcontent, the thugs with a penchant for violence. Cybertron’s underbelly of resentment exploded into revolution.

Then came the greatest horror. The Decepticons rounded up Mini-cons and cruelly altered them, transforming the tiny robots into personal power units. Boosted by the results of the horrific experiments, Megatron’s army had become seemingly unstoppable.

That was the reason Optimus Prime was in the amphitheatre tonight, addressing the crowd. It was time for the Autobots to claim a decisive victory; to deal a deep and vicious wound to the ever-advancing Decepticon masses. To this end, Prime had brought together all of his top minds – the best thinkers, the greatest strategists – to share their ideas for ending the war.

Or, at least, it appeared that way. Optimus Prime had never felt so alone… because there was no one else in the amphitheatre with him.

A distant observer would say he was flanked by twenty highly-skilled and heavily-armed Autobot warriors. Which was, of course, the point. In truth, his audience were nothing but empty shells. Scavenger had called them “facsimile constructs”… metallic stand-ins for real Transformers. They – and Prime – were nothing more than bait for the biggest gamble in the Autobots' short history.

Tonight, they sought to lure eight of the Decepticons' deadliest killers to the amphitheatre, and there destroy them. It had been dubbed Operation: Volcano – the moment when Autobot forces around the planet would erupt from their hiding places and wipe out the Decepticon army in one massive, co-ordinated, concerted push.

And the spearheads of the operation would be Cybertron’s most decorated warriors… its legendary crack commando unit.

The Wreckers.

\-----

Scavenger looked them over, one last time before the fireworks. Wing Saber and Overcast were deep in a game of one-upmanship, telling tall tales about high-altitude flying. Landmine and Landquake were arm-wrestling. Those two lunkheads never got tired of proving their toughness. The enthusiastic Cliffjumper was trying – and failing – to engage the moody Roadblock in conversation.

Bulkhead, meanwhile, was hovering just to Scavenger’s right. Like always. He was just where a right-hand man ought to be, like he’d been trained.

“Ready?” Bulkhead asked. His green, white and orange body was still dinged and dented from their last scrap with the ‘cons, but he hadn’t stopped for repairs. Wanted to show he could take it, that he could be as tough as the Old Bot himself. Though Scavenger hated the nickname, he never discouraged its use… a sign of respect is a sign of respect.

He’d been fighting longer than most Transformers had been online. Defeating alien invasions. Leading campaigns off-world to pre-empt new invasion plans. Scavenger had been around so long, whispers had started that he was one of the original 13 – the first creations of their so-called god, Primus. It wasn’t true, of course – he was only eight million years old – but some days he felt like it was. Especially on days like this, when the fate of the planet seemed to rest on his broad shoulders.

 _Again_.

They already knew the targets were enroute. Bunch'a punks calling themselves the Mayhem Attack Squad were more than happy to believe Optimus Prime and the Autobot top brass would be out in the open and unprotected. He could imagine them crossing the Tagon Heights, already anticipating the fuel-shed to come.

The Wreckers had never fought their own kind before, but that didn't matter much. If they could handle the Shrikebats of Dromedon, they could handle a few malcontents with heat condensation behind their audio sensors. Wiping out a city of deep thinkers was one thing - facing a true military unit would be well beyond these "Decepticon" amateurs.

They would be very, very surprised. Oh, their information was correct – Optimus _had_ ordered all of his troops away so as not to draw attention to the meeting. The dignitaries – empties though they be – _would_ be on-site and ripe for the slaughter. Their information, sadly, was just a teensy-tiny bit incomplete … because the Wreckers _were_ on sight and _were_ ready to kick ‘con skid-plate.

Scavenger was proud of the scheme. Though Megatron had been his student, the old warrior hadn’t passed on all of his tricks. This one was sure-fire guaranteed to bring the psychos running, then send ‘em all home in pieces. All without flagging one single sensor in Megatron’s processor.

“Yeah, we’re ready,” Scavenger finally answered.

Bulkhead – his protégé, his greatest student – nodded once and sprinted off. Scavenger watched as he touched base with each one of the Wreckers, making sure they were locked and loaded. The sight brought a smile to the old warrior’s face plate. He was far from ready for the scrap-heap – someone had to stick around and keep that new Prime in order, after all – but, when he went, Bulkhead would be more than ready to take his place.

\-----

Sharkticon had used a utility duct to scout the rendezvous point and so smelled worse than usual. Still, the place was clean, and his signal brought Slugslinger, Thrust and Shockblast in for landing. The trio flew in low, well under the radars of the miserable Autobot forces.

His single optic glowing in the dim light, Shockblast checked their surroundings. It wasn’t that he doubted Sharkticon’s abilities – though filthy and retched, the aquatic Decepticon was a good operator. Shockblast simply left nothing to chance. It was part of his very programming.

Some called him cold and dispassionate … a few had even nicknamed him “calculator”… but the military operations commander hardly cared. When revolutionary zeal failed, when militant passions faded, when bad intentions came up short… he thrived.

His strategies were flawless because of his unflappable logic. Megatron knew this and, Shockblast suspected, feared it. As well he should. He followed Megatron, tolerated the unhinged and unbalanced army around him, because logic dictated it the best course to conquest.

For now.

The purple and green strategist opened up a section of his back, allowing two golden panels to rise up. They were part of his weaponry in his alternate, satellite mode – devices capable of jamming all communications within a ten-klick radius. He activated them, confident their Autobot targets were now deaf, dumb and blind.

Barricade and Steamhammer arrived, bristling with blades and munitions. Shockblast’s keen hearing – second only to Soundwave – registered their approach even before his perfect vision – the best among the Decepticons – caught sight of them. Dreadwing and Mirage – the terrible twins – followed soon after. All were tardy, but all were vital to the mission.

Reunited, the Mayhem Attack Squad regarded one another with suspicion and jealousy. Shockblast preferred it that way, and worked hard to keep internal resentment simmering within his unit. The more they hated each other, the more effective they were as an eight-limbed killing machine. Tonight, their job could not be simpler – kill the Prime, bring back the Matrix, slaughter the other fools.

Shockblast spoke not a word. He merely gestured toward the Imperial Amphitheatre. The others nodded, transformed to their vehicle modes, and began their stealthy approach.

\-----

His com-link went dead. _Right on schedule_ , Rollout grinned. He may be ornery and damn scary at times, but Scavenger knew the Decepticons inside and out.

Rollout transformed into a small, red-and-black armoured vehicle. He wore his Autobot symbol proudly on his hood – unlike the rest of his fellow Mini-cons. While the majority of his people remained neutral in the conflict or, worse, had been enslaved, Rollout had joined the Autobot forces on day one.

Not that he’d really had any other choice, all things considered.

For as long as he could remember, Rollout’s best friend had been a “normal sized” Cybertronian – a ‘bot by the name of Orion Pax. He was an archivist, responsible for collating data on the planet and its people. Rollout was his researcher, the mech on the street gathering up the raw information.

He liked to think that, together, they were pretty much unbeatable – the best example of Cybertronian/Mini-con relations. The smaller robots had long been treated as second-class citizens, tools for the dangerous jobs or simply cheap labour. Orion was different to the rest. He treated Rollout like an equal, a brother, and he did the same.

Life, in short, was good. Until the day Megatron came to visit.

Rollout had been surprised – not that Cybertron’s greatest warrior had decided to grace their station, though that was shock enough. No, what stunned the Mini-con was _Orion’s_ reaction to their guest. The quiet, often timid data-cruncher was suddenly alive with awe and babbling conversation. He quoted Megatron’s military history, professing his admiration for the great strategies of the past.

The general had been gracious and modest while his lieutenant, Starscream, had smirked. The idle chat had continued – though no one spoke to Rollout, of course – until Megatron came to the purpose of his visit. He wanted Orion to wipe some data from the central archive, the Underbase itself, but would not say why. It didn’t seem to be important data – just the planned location of his unit’s next assignment – but Orion hesitated. Despite his hero-worship, he took his job and responsibilities seriously… and refused.

Megatron’s benevolent smile had contorted into a furious grimace before he lowered his shoulder cannons and fired. The blasts had severed Orion’s arms and knocked him to the floor. Rollout had leapt to his friend’s defence, but was caught in mid-air by Starscream. The solider had laughed at the “feeble Mini-con” and tossed him to his leader, who sent Rollout into stasis lock with a single blow.

The pair came out of CR one day after the massacre of Megatron’s unit. History remembered it as the first shot of the Cybertronian Civil War. They alone knew different… the first shot had been fired at Orion.

Rollout rounded the outside of the amphitheatre. _It_ was waiting for him, the crimson leviathan that was going to even the score once and for all. The Wreckers were just one part of the surprise the Mayhems would encounter this night. The rest of the shocks were Rollout’s department.

He transformed to robot mode and lumbered over to the device. His ungainly walk was a permanent memory of his encounter with Megatron – though never the strongest chassis in the garage, he’d been left permanently disabled, frail beyond even CR’s ability to heal. He was almost certain his situation was the impetus for Optimus Prime’s decision.

Optimus Prime. How strange it was to use that name.

No sooner had he and Orion recovered from their beating than Sentinel Prime – leader of Cybertron and bearer of the Matrix of Leadership – had been murdered. The Matrix, fortunately, had been recovered… though at the cost of many lives… and returned to the High Council. It debated and deliberated, then announced Orion Pax would be the next Prime.

The decision made no sense and, for the longest time, Orion refused to accept this “destiny”. He told the wise and ancient councillors they were mistaken, that he was an archivist, that he was no military leader. And yet the councillors would not be swayed. When Orion surrendered to their entreaties and took up the Matrix, everyone learned how right the old ones had been. In a flash of golden energy, Orion Pax _evolved_ into a super-mechanically powerful warrior… and Optimus Prime was born.

Though still a little unsure of himself, Orion… _Optimus_ … had won over the fuel pumps and processors of the Autobots. Scavenger had provided some training, but the rest of his leadership skills seemed to come from within… as if the Matrix was plumbing the depths of his Spark to expose his true potential. He was wise beyond his years, battlefield savvy without having staged a campaign and frelling deadly with an Ion rifle. Not bad for someone who’d only ever sighted along a slide rule.

To this day, Megatron was unaware the timid archivist and his greatest nemesis were one and the same. It was a secret known only to Optimus and Rollout, and the brothers had sworn to keep it that way.

Rollout reached out and patted the leviathan. Called “Overload”, it was the product of Red Alert’s genius and the single greatest weapons system ever designed. In its vehicle mode, it boasted primary plasma cannons that could generate enough concussive force to penetrate two units of trithyllium-steel. Its two independent missile launchers, meanwhile, could down a Decepticon jet from distances of 50 klicks.

Better still, the enormous trailer had _two_ transformations. First, it turned into twin shoulder-mounted cannons capable of taking down a star ship. Those cannons were designed to combine with Optimus himself… and would do so for the first time tonight.

Then there was Rollout’s favourite mode… the battle suit. The exoskeleton was incredibly strong – almost as strong as Optimus himself. Pods located in its shoulders could launch a total of 20 MIRV missiles accurate to a distance of 30 klicks, while its forearms could unfurl into two massive wrecking hooks.

Rollout would be sitting right in the centre of the suit, forming its head thanks to a few (painful but worthwhile) operations. He would control its every move, be its “brain”, and he could hardly wait to crack some ‘con heads.

 _It’s guilt_ , he thought as he ran through Red Alert’s checklist. _Optimus feels guilty about becoming so powerful while I’m still a disabled Mini-con. He hates us not being equals. So he volunteers me to be the “brain” of Overload, bringing us back to close-to-level pegging. He’s a hex nut, but I’d hate for him to change. Well, any more than he has already._

Rollout knew he would have done anything to be given command of Overload. His people were being captured, enslaved and turned into Decepticon jewellery. Those that weren’t had been running scared, afraid to show their faces for fear of Megatron’s “chop shops”. Overload was more than a weapons system. It was Rollout’s chance to strike back, to inspire more Mini-cons to join the Autobots… and to be the hero that, deep in his Spark, he’d always wanted to be.

Rollout transformed to vehicle mode and coupled with Overload. Then he revved his little motor, remote-activated the platform’s giant engines and trundled into position.

Once again, he grinned. Shockblast and his cronies had no idea what they were about to get themselves into.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Simon Furman and Geoff Senior

\------------  
 _Hub Capital: Iacon  
Imperial Amphitheatre_

 _8.1 Million Years Ago_  
\------------

 

Somewhere above him, a shot rang out. There was a brief pause, then two more energy blasts. Gently, Optimus Prime moved one hand closer to his ion rifle, hidden inside the podium. Experience – short though it may be – told him to stay his hand.

No attack came.

The Autobot leader lifted his hand back to the top of the podium. _Stray shot? Blaster malfunction?_ he wondered. It sounded like the shots had come from the very top of the amphitheatre, up where the curved walls finished and the night sky began. _The Wreckers weren’t to be stationed that high… has the plan changed? And, if so, why?_

He snuck a glance at his wrist-mounted communicator. No signal – so they were being jammed, just as Scavenger had predicted. The blaster fire could mean serious problems or it could be a simple accident… but he had no way of knowing which. He was officially out of contact with his commandos.

Just one more unnerving thing about this whole operation. He was at the centre of a massive slaughterhouse and, no matter the noble ends, he could not silence his conscience over the means. The leader understood the necessity of fuel-shed, while the archivist begged for more time to study, to compute, to seek solutions.

Inwardly cursing his lack of options, Optimus turned back to his inanimate audience and continued his oration. The Decepticons would have to arrive soon… he was running out of things to say.

\-----

Shockblast worked to triangulate the origin of the noise. He could faintly hear voices raised in argument… what sounded like a death cry… then a gentle popping sound. He scanned the heights of the amphitheatre but saw nothing.

Chances were he’d picked up a string of unconnected, unintelligible garbage with no bearing on their mission. Shockblast didn’t believe in “chance”, however. Logic was his god, his sole motivation, and logic demanded he further consider the situation.

Logically, the presence of weaponry on the ramparts of the target zone indicated a gap in their intelligence. They had been told the Autobots were out of the area, kept away by Prime’s own orders to avoid attention. It would seem that was no longer the case – someone was, or had been, up there. It would be illogical for Prime or a dignitary to have climbed to such a height.

Conclusion: they had an unknown quantity in the mix.

The rest of the Mayhems drew in behind him. Though silent, they demanded to know what was going on, why they had been stopped so close to a kill. Shockblast could tell that from their expressions. Yet he would not bow to them on this or any other topic – he had plans to make, and did not speak until he was ready.

“Sharkticon, Slugslinger and I will remain here for the moment, as a second wave,” he said simply. “Thrust, take command of the rest and lead the attack. Three prongs. Concentrate first on the Prime, as he is the most dangerous. When he is down, send word and we will join you.”

Thrust – ever suspicious, ever plotting for his own gain – raised an optic-brow, but said nothing… just as Shockblast expected. The best way to avoid Thrust’s questions was to give him a leadership role, and let his ego take care of the rest.

The others moved off to their positions. Shockblast watched, silently, until Slugslinger tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to look at the aerial Decepticon. One eye was larger than the other, while half of his mouth was upturned in a permanent rictus.

“And the reason, oh fearless leader, we’re stuck here spinning our flywheels while those jerks get to kick skid-plate?” Slugslinger rumbled. “Feeling a little less than confident about this raid, are we?”

Slugslinger was crude and vile, both in speech and in battle tactics. He was also the second-best marksman among the Decepticons, and an incurable troublemaker responsible for much of the tension within the Mayhem Attack Squad. While this all made him invaluable to Shockblast, it did not mean he was particularly intelligent or insightful.

“Something is not right here,” the strategist explained. “I’d rather not waste our abilities when the grunts are perfectly capable of springing a trap all on their own.”

A horrid grin crept across Slugslinger’s misshapen face, so broad that both sides of his face matched. Sharkticon, too, understood the subtle compliment and appreciated the plan. The trio moved under cover and waited.

\-----

“Who in the blue blazes fired that shot?”

Scavenger was ropeable. Cycles of hard graft and planning, all thrown away. All because one of his so-called elite had to scratch an itchy trigger finger. He’d left his position and rumbled over to the others, looking pointedly at Cliffjumper.

“Why me?” the young Autobot moaned.

“Because you’re the one most likely to want to up the stakes – for Pit’s sake, lad, dial it down!” Scavenger snarled.

“Boss, it wasn’t me,” Cliffjumper implored. “I haven’t even unholstered my launchers yet! Maybe it was Rollout!”

Bulkhead snorted. “Rollout? By the Matrix, he’s just a Mini-con – even with a battle suit, I doubt he has the bearings to draw bead on a Decepticon!”

The Wreckers laughed until Scavenger glared at them. Quickly, one after another, they denied firing the shot. He believed them. They were all seasoned vets and – aside from Cliffjumper – the last ‘bots to risk a mission by acting stupid. Which meant someone else had finked them out.

“Do we abort?” Bulkhead asked.

The old warrior screwed up his face. In many ways, it would be the best decision. Even if the ‘cons were on the way, it’d take no time at all to snatch Prime and high-tail it back to a secure area. There’d be another opportunity, another trap to set down the track.

Except…

Cybertron had never known war. Scavenger, however, did – he’d seen the devastation, the effect on the innocents, the slaughter, first-hand on countless worlds. He had no desire to see his own planet ripped apart in the same way.

If the Autobots did not make a stand here, tonight, they’d likely never halt the Decepticon advance. Not only would the lives of the Mini-cons be forfeit, but likely those of everyone in Iacon. If he had trouble with the idea of taking up arms against a fellow Cybertronian, he could only imagine how the civilian population would react.

He glanced at Cliffjumper and smiled. It’d be risky, sure… but wasn’t anything worth doing full of chance?

“No, we don’t abort,” Scavenger said. “We do what we always do – we wreck and rule!”

\-----

“And so it falls on us, my Autobots, to not only hold the line but push _back_ – regain the ground we have lost,” Optimus told the facsimile constructs before him. “As has been written in the Covenant of Primus: _My first responsibility is to those I left behind_.

“We make the Mini-cons our first responsibility… in ensuring their freedom, we will sow the seeds of our own. I thank you, and urge you to heed my words.”

Pre-recorded applause flooded the amphitheatre. _Well,_ Optimus wondered. _What now? Do I stand here, or…_

He heard a whistling sound. A split-second later, two missiles streaked across the cavernous facility and slammed into his chest plate. The explosions knocked him from the podium and into the far wall. Optimus slumped to the ground, smoking and smouldering.

Laser fire rained down from the open ceiling and sliced through the “delegates”, each of whom – thanks to some clever engineering – exploded impressively. Those who survived the barrage were crushed under the treads of two massive vehicles – Steamhammer and Barricade, who thundered through the walls and into the open.

Mirage and Dreadwing rose from their sniper spot and glided lightly down to the floor. An evil chill seemed to follow the twins as they hovered, spectre-like, just inches above the carnage. “Utterly beautiful,” Mirage whispered, revelling in the artistry of the kill. “The colour, the plume of fire, the burst of smoke as Prime fell from his perch.”

“Truly magnificent,” Dreadwing agreed. “I’m glad I had my optical recorder running – some of the freeze-frames will make for wonderful prints.”

Steamhammer shook his head. “Freaks,” he muttered, kicking the severed head of one delegate. It bounced off a twitching corpse and up into the air. Barricade caught it with one hand and squeezed, crushing it.

Thrust ignored them all and walked toward Optimus Prime. Having to cede the kill-shot to Mirage and Dreadwing was utterly galling, so he was somewhat hopeful the Autobot leader was still alive. If not, he would simply have the satisfaction of ripping the Matrix from his ruined chassis.

The aerial Decepticon kneeled down to examine Prime, using the turbines in his hands to push away the smoke. The billowing grey clouds parted to reveal… an almost undamaged chest plate. The steel grille was dented in a few places, charred in others, but was otherwise whole. Which meant…

Optimus raised his arms. Before Thrust could move, he triggered the twin-barrelled forearm blasters and sent yellow energy lancing into the Decepticon’s squid-shaped head. It exploded in a shower of circuitry and metal shards. Thrust’s headless body rose to its feet, wobbled in place and then fell to the floor.

Operation: Volcano had begun.

He caught sight of the Mayhems’ faces – utter shock – as he dashed across the amphitheatre. _Aimed for the chest, just as we’d thought_ , Optimus mused. _In trying to guarantee their kill, they made their first mistake. Wouldn’t the place where I keep the Matrix be the most well-armoured part of my body?_

Optimus snatched up his rifle and then transformed, his body shifting into a six-wheeled, red-and-blue assault vehicle. He drove straight at the bewildered Decepticons, all of whom scattered to the edges of the chamber. Every fibre of his being screamed out against killing them, yet he knew it had to be done. Still, he was fearful of adopting Decepticon tactics for too long. He promised himself that, come the end of this battle, he would work to find a better way.

On cue, the Wreckers erupted into the amphitheatre. Bulkhead, Wing Saber and Overcast transformed into their aerial modes and unleashed salvos of munitions. Scavenger, Cliffjumper and Roadblock roared along the ground, adding to the confusion. Finally, Landmine and Landquake burst from beneath the ground itself, clad in their exo-skeletons.

“Outnumbered, outgunned and out-manoeuvred,” Scavenger hollered. “These boys are my type of Decepticons!”

Landmine swung his massive fists at Mirage, catching the Decepticon in the side of the head. Though slow, his forward momentum was near impossible to avoid, and he just… kept… swinging. Plates, wings and fins were torn from Mirage with each blow, and the lithe giant fell ever back.

Dreadwing fared little better. He had transformed into an angular hovercraft and tried to outrun Landquake. The big Autobot had grunted, then fired his grappling hook at the fleeing vehicle. It did not snag Dreadwing but instead punctured his hull and stuck fast, keeping him just in range of Landquake’s cannons.

Barricade dodged one barrage, then a second, and finally managed to scream into his communicator. “Shockblast!” he roared. “Get your sorry cycloptian chassis in here now!”

“Draw their fire,” came the monotone reply. The sound quality was poor, as if the signal was emanating from a long way away. “We are assessing the situation.”

“Assessing?” Barricade howled in disbelief. He stopped and stared down into the communicator, as if he could use it to peer into Shockblast’s very Spark. “We’re getting slaggin’ pasted in here, what the frell is there to assess?”

He had paused one second too long. Overcast and Wing Saber locked on to his immobile form and fired, their combined firepower shredding the blue-and-white soldier.

“Woo-hah!” Wing Saber cried. “Wreck and Rule!”

\-----

Rollout’s spirits soared as Barricade crumpled. _Two down with no losses_ , he thought to himself. _It’s shaping up to be a good night._

Something inside him twinged. He felt a little nauseous – not from nerves but from the loss of life. Instantly, he regretted his elation. Yes, this was war and killing was excusable, maybe even necessary, but that was no reason to feel joy at the termination of a sentient life. He’d have to remember to talk to Optimus at the end of all this… he had a feeling the leader would deeply regret firing on Thrust, taking that first life.

The Mini-con shook his head clear and transformed, driving out onto the battlefield. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew this had to stop.

\-----

Overcast was concerned. Two had fallen easily, yet the remaining three seemed to avoid every blast. Was it simply that the weakest had fallen first? He hoped so. The Wreckers had never fought their own kind before. They’d always fared poorly in long, drawn-out conflicts. They were built to strike hard and fast, then vanish. This whole thing, this Operation: Volcano, was a massive gamble for them. 

Wing Saber was just ahead of him, trying to get a clear shot on Steamhammer. The green-and-black construction vehicle was not fast but drove well, managing to slip his bulk between the bombardment. He left a cloud of oily smoke in his wake, which Overcast locked on to and followed. With the weight of numbers on their side, there was little harm in ganging up on one opponent.

“Flying cowards,” Steamhammer called. “Why don’t you down here and face me? Too afraid?”

“We’ve got bravery to spare, slag heap,” Overcast replied. “But if you think you’re in a fair fight, you don’t know the Wreckers!”

A tone sounded in his cockpit – he had target lock on Steamhammer. Overcast paused for but a second then loosed two missiles, ready for this fight to be over. He looked on in shock as the missiles veered away from Steamhammer… and swept up toward Wing Saber.

His long-time partner yelled something just before the deadly payloads connected. The concussive force all but disintegrated the red-and-blue aircraft.

“No!” Overcast wailed. “I didn’t… I mean, I…”

He could hear laughing and, with a start, realised it came from within his own cockpit.

“You’re just like all the rest,” Steamhammer chuckled, his face appearing on Overcast’s internal monitor. “You see a construction vehicle and instantly think ‘big, dumb, hand-to-hand fighter’.

“Well surprise, big man – communications and espionage are my thing, and messing up your targeting systems is just the first of my plans for you!”

\-----

Dreadwing did not panic. There was no art in panic – no poetry in surrendering one’s faculties to fear. He was hooked and in pain, yes, but hardly defeated. The day he could be defeated by a mere brawler… well, such a day would never exist.

“You might as well give it up, Decepticon,” Landquake called to him. The white-and-blue brute was learning back, holding on to his blasted grapple line with a death-grip. “Ain’t no way I’m turning you loose.”

Dreadwing cut his engines and allowed himself to be reeled in. So sudden was the change in forces that Landquake toppled, dropping to one knee. In that instant Dreadwing ejected his prisoner – a Mini-con he’d kept locked in his hold for just such an occasion. The little creep – he neither knew nor cared its name – synched into the port Megatron had installed on Dreadwing’s hull, and that familiar rush of power went through his circuits. _Hyper power_

In an instant, his back was bristling with cannons – an arsenal of deadly weapons activated by the Mini-con interface. Dreadwing let loose, painting in the air with incendiaries. Even the Autobot’s thick armour could not withstand a Mini-con powered assault. Soon, the blasts had re-sculpted Landquake into a tasteful, if twisted, piece of designer wreckage.

Now _that_ was art.

\-----

Overcast growled. “Oh no,” he told Steamhammer. “You’re not getting a second chance.” He powered down his missile launchers and switched to cannons, taking time to carefully lock onto the fleeing Decepticon. When he was certain of his shot, he let loose a barrage of uranium-tipped bullets.

The ordnance never crossed his view-screen.

He activated his external scanners. His wing-mounted cannons had been pointed out, rather than forward, and the hail of radiated lead had sailed straight into Cliffjumper. The young warrior was on his side, still in vehicle mode, fluid oozing from a hundred different perforations.

“Taking remote control of your guns isn’t that difficult, either,” Steamhammer hissed. He’d transformed back to robot mode and was standing, almost casually, with his left hand behind his back.

Internally, the Autobot wept. He’d seen death and destruction, had even dealt out a lot of it himself, but never had he felt so low. He was ashamed of himself and racked with guilt. Two comrades dead by his hand, all because of one crafty Decepticon. He knew what he had to do… not just for the sake of Cybertron, but for the sake of his own honour.

Overcast shut down all of his weapons and aimed himself squarely at Steamhammer’s stoic face. He didn’t care anymore whether he lived or died, whether he was in one piece at the end of this. As long as his opponent fell, he’d have done his job. Overcast trimmed back his wings and increased his speed, thinking only of Wing Saber and Cliffjumper.

They were his last thoughts.

Steamhammer’s expression was frozen as he brought around his left hand – a massive steam shovel – and caught Overcast. He stopped the jet dead, then squeezed, activating powerful hydraulics in his wrist and bringing thousands of pounds of force to bear on the Autobot. His dim-witted foe didn’t even have time to scream.

\-----

Cliffjumper was still alive.

Transforming was _agony_ , but he did it. He was a Wrecker, after all – pain was life. It was when you stopped feeling pain that you had to worry. Still, he wished it didn’t hurt so much to lift his launchers.

He looked around. Scavenger and Bulkhead were making their way toward Dreadwing. Landmine and Mirage were still grappling over by the downed podium. That left Steamhammer. The ‘con looked impassive, almost disappointed, as he clutched Overcast’s corpse.

Cliffjumper coughed, bring up coolant and oil. _That_ wasn’t good. Something inside him must have ruptured – no slaggin’ surprise, given the number of bullets he’d caught – and it was a long way back to the CR chambers. Nope. Time to go out with a bang.

Straining with the effort, Cliffjumper levelled both launchers at Overcast. His dead friend still had a near-full complement of missiles onboard. Two well-placed shots would ignite their payloads, incinerate Steamhammer and give his buddy the send-off he deserved. A blaze of glory for the flyboy.

He fired, relishing Steamhammer’s scream as his metal began to melt. “Choke on that, you dirty sludge!” he coughed. Then he stopped feeling the pain.

\-----

Optimus pulled up next to Rollout. Both were sickened by what they had witnessed. Each had tried and failed to assist the Wreckers, doing his best to draw fire from the wounded and assist the able-bodied. They’d been ignored – not just by the Decepticons, but by their brethren.

“It’s not right,” Rollout whispered. “Something has happened here tonight… something that goes against everything we were raised to become.”

They looked across the battlefield, their Sparks aching for the dead. “A dark, ugly part of ourselves has been stirred up and turned loose,” Optimus said. “Autobot, Decepticon… these distinctions mean nothing. Every soldier on that field is maddened by the need to kill. This has to be stopped.”

Optimus transformed – not into his robot mode, but into a wholly different configuration. From a space under the amphitheatre’s walls came his second half – a long, white trailer – that also changed its shape. The two sections met in mid-air and joined together, combining into one eight-storey tall powerhouse.

“This mission was a mistake,” the now-gigantic Optimus said. “Using Megatron’s own tactics against him yield nothing but death. There will be a better way – I promise you, Rollout. I promise you, I promise Cybertron, I promise myself there will be a better way.

“Now, though, there are lives to be saved. Lives on both sides of the conflict.” He looked at his friend. “I think it’s time, little brother.”

Rollout nodded resolutely. They’d always worked well together, but now it was time to team up with his brother in a whole new way, for a wholly different reason.

\-----

Mirage and Dreadwing were weakening.

Even with Mini-con enhancement, the wraith-like Transformers could barely withstand a three-pronged attack. Bulkhead used the rockets in his legs to spring from one side of the battlefield to the other, peppering both Decepticons with artillery. Landmine, incensed by the death of his brother, pounded mercilessly on Mirage.

Scavenger, meanwhile, was living up to his name. The old warrior scooped up chunks of debris, discarded weapons… even pieces of his dead soldiers… and used them to whale on Dreadwing. He was ranting incoherently, screaming out the rage he felt inside.

His unit, his boys, were dead or dying because he had underestimated the enemy. He’d called them amateurs, laughed at their chosen name and mocked their abilities. But they’d been right… they, all of them, were utter Mayhem. How could Cybertronians become so vicious? What had Megatron done to these ‘bots – how had he taken malcontents and turned them into psychopaths?

At that moment, Scavenger decided he didn’t care. All he wanted was to tear the very Sparks out of them.

Dreadwing fell before him, trying uselessly to cover his head with his hands. A clang behind them, and Mirage fell – Scavenger turned just in time to see the light fade from his optics, and Landmine step on his head. Bulkhead landed next to his leader and held up his helicopter blades – they had been transformed into a sword.

An executioner’s blade.

Scavenger hefted the sword, raising it up to the roof. “This is the way it ends, scum,” he rasped, taking delight in the look of fear that crossed Dreadwing’s features. “Your head is now forfeit.”

_”No!”_

The voice rang out across the carnage, followed by two searing beams of heat. The blasts cleaved the space between the Autobots and Dreadwing, forcing all combatants back. Into the fray strode Optimus Prime, boasting Overload on his shoulders.

“Stand down, Wreckers – that’s an order!” he boomed. “We will not sink to the level of the Decepticons… that is no way to honour the fallen, no way to win back our world.”

He turned to Dreadwing. “Consider yourself a prisoner, Decepticon – the first of many. Your comrades will soon join you, and you will all be rehabilitated.”

“Rehabilitated?” Landmine spat the word as if it were poison. “My brother is dead, our unit is scrapped, and you have the _nerve_ to promise amnesty to these Unicron spawn?” He lashed out with an oversized fist but failed to connect. “How dare you?”

Prime was unmoved. “I understand your grief, Landmine, but violence will not bring your brother back.” Then, more firmly, he said, “Stand down.”

Scavenger spoke up. “You’re out of line, rookie,” he told his leader. “Messing with forces you just don’t understand yet. This is the way, and it’s always been the way – might against might, knock ‘em down before they knock you down.” He raised the sword again. “You’ll learn that, Optimus Prime, in time.”

Prime moved to shield Dreadwing… then something happened.

A ripple of golden energy flooded the giant’s body and ran through his systems, blinding Autobot and Decepticon alike. It moved up over his shoulders and into the cannons, turning the crimson weaponry a deep shade of blue. The rest of its colours shifted – white and red replacing yellow and black – as it leapt from Prime’s shoulders and transformed into robot mode.

It had been Overload, but now it was something… else. Its face spoke of intelligence and patience, its body language screamed power and fairness. Twin Autobot logos were emblazoned on its white shoulders and, when it spoke, the new giant’s voice dripped with maturity.

“Your commanding officer gave you an order, Scavenger,” the new Transformer said.

The Wreckers were slack-jawed. “Rollout?” Bulkhead asked.

“No,” the giant replied. “Now _stand down_.”

Landmine recovered first. “Screw all of you,” he snapped, and pushed past Optimus and the newcomer. He reached out with a massive claw and grabbed Dreadwing by the neck. As he started to squeeze, the two bigger Autobots moved to stop him.

Two shots rang out. A tiny hole appeared in the centre of Dreadwing’s face, perfectly matching the one in Landmine’s forehead. As their bodies slumped to the ground, the rest of the Autobots dove for cover.

Slugslinger was perched at the very top of the amphitheatre, grinning wildly. Sharkticon rose up alongside him, his hip-mounted launchers swivelling into place. Their shots were fast and accurate, tearing into the Autobots no matter how they twisted.

Optimus’ legs went out from under him. He split from his trailer and returned to his normal robot mode, laying down cover fire as he went. Rollout… Overload… _whoever_ he was… fired a barrage of missiles from his shoulder pods, dragging the injured Bulkhead to cover at the same time. Scavenger snapped off shots where he could, but no weapon he carried had the range to knock out the distant assassins.

As suddenly as the attack began, it ceased. The Decepticons holstered their weapons, transformed to their aerial modes and took off, the gleam of their engines rapidly fading to dots. Hesitantly, the three conscious Autobots walked back into the open.

“On a night where nothing makes sense, add one more mystery to the tally,” Optimus breathed.

“Two more,” the other giant replied. “I can’t seem to disconnect from this battle suit. I think we’ve… fused or something.”

Scavenger said nothing. His rage had cooled, he was thinking like a tactician again. Scanning the debris, he counted corpses and added assassins to his tally. Intel said the Mayhem Attack Squad was an eight-bot unit. He hadn’t noticed two were missing during the fighting.

Two? He counted again… plus the assassins, he came up with seven. He looked up into the sky, thinking. That left...

“Prime!” Scavenger yelled, throwing himself at his leader. Optimus turned, confused, and was knocked off his feet. A second later, a brilliant green beam split the sky and dug into the ground… right through Scavenger.

Optimus ran to his fallen mentor. “Rollout” loosed a salvo at the skies. Something dark and distant – a satellite, perhaps – danced out of range and was gone.

There was a fist-sized hole through Scavenger. The wound was perfectly cylindrical and cauterised – but the damage had been done. Too many vital systems had been pulped too quickly.

“Shot from the skies,” Scavenger groused. “This really is… a different kind of war, isn’t it?” He groaned. “Prime… you may be right about… there being another way. But always… always remember the old ways can still work.”

“Scavenger, I…”

The old ‘bot tried to point, but his arm flailed. “Get Bulkhead on… his feet, and the rest of… those losers. You’ll need… the Wreckers and Bulkhead’s… ready to lead ‘em. Trust him, Prime… he’s one of the best.”

The light faded from his optics. His entire body shifted colours as it transmuted back to dull steel – the way all long-lived Transformers died. Optimus cradled the body. He actually felt Scavenger’s life force leave the husk… the Matrix gave him that blessing, that curse. Saddened beyond words, he lay his friend down and moved away.

Optimus Prime, Autobot commander, holder of the Matrix of Leadership, surveyed the remains of Operation: Volcano. It would be the last of its kind, he vowed. It had achieved partial victory and, in doing so, become one of the greatest losses in an already long list of defeats. The Wreckers were gone.

Tonight, perhaps for the first time, he understood. This was a different kind of war – it was Cybertronian against Cybertronian. That made for consequences and ramifications so far undreamed of. In his dying words, Scavenger had been wrong. The old ways could not work – not anymore. The war fought by groups like the Wreckers had been replaced with a new kind of conflict, one with no rules of engagement. Optimus Prime would have to choose his own path, and hope it led to a better world for all his people.

To his left, Bulkhead stirred. The new robot – once Rollout, now something more – helped the warrior to his feet. Bulkhead refused to stand, though. At the sight of his fallen teacher he sank to his knees, staring without comprehension.

In his face, Optimus saw the future… a destiny for his race that he vowed to change.


End file.
